“There must be times when he sits alone brooding over his boy and how different things might have been had he married a different type of woman,” remarked Eleanor, one evening, after leaving their new class-room.
“Yes; but it seems to me he should have been able to see through such a shallow thing as that woman must have been, when he returned from college and found her apparently waiting for him,” Polly replied.
“But he’s so tender-hearted, you see, he couldn’t bear to give her any pain or trouble. That must have been the only reason why he allowed her to get him.”
“I suppose so. Why, even now, he is an easy prey to the scheming people who know he has barrels of money, and who simply pretend to be friendly for what they can get out of him.”
“It’s too bad he can’t be satisfied with just Mr. Ashby and Mr. Fabian for man friends, and we few women for his women friends,” mused Eleanor. “We’d love him for himself.”
Polly smiled. “Wouldn’t you and I give him a gay time—with high-school keeping us employed every week-day, and art class every other night in the week, to say nothing of lectures, exhibitions, and other things that Mr. Fabian has us do, in line with our work.”
The two girls had crossed Madison and Fourth avenues by this time, and were slowly walking down the street towards the Studio. It was a beautiful Fall night, and the moon was almost full, hence they were in no hurry to reach home and go indoors.
“I hear Anne singing—she must have company,” said Polly as they neared the house.
